Lost In The Nations
by Malinahona
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, while working on longer than planned project assignment for his company in the strange land of San Francisco, has the pleasure of making Alfred Jones his newest acquaintance. While he deals with the challenge of accepting his sexuality.


_I am not the original writer of this story, my best friend wrote this, but she does not have an account so I am publishing it for her. Enjoy!_

Chapter 1

"You stupid git... you! What are you looking at? Huh? Get the hell away!" shouted Arthur as he staggered down the sidewalk, legs swirling out unsurely before him before he placed his feet and continued forward. A passerby raised his eyes in question but simply continued on as Arthur continued shouting. His thick, dark, eyebrows were totally furrowed in frustration and his bright blonde hair, which had certainly been combed neatly at one time or another, was fluffed back and to the side as well as ruffled in nearly every direction. His expensive looking suit was totally wrinkled and slightly unbuttoned in parts. He scuffed his shoe heels as he walked, but he didn't really notice, or particularly care. That's how he felt about a lot of things. He didn't notice how dark it was, or that it was just around three in the morning, but if he had he wouldn't care. He didn't notice the way he was slightly flailing his arms about as he walked, as if he was balancing carefully on a tight-rope, and he didn't care. He didn't notice that smug smirk Francis wore briefly at the end of the business dinner after he made a fool of himself in front of everybody, and he didn't care that it was Francis that had smirked at him, after all of that trouble they'd been through... Never mind. He did care. Why was everything so confused? Why was he so mixed up? Why was the world spinning. "Bloody hell, someone get me a biscuit and some tea, room service? Where the bloody hell are you? Lucile! Lucile?" He shouted into the night air. Wasn't he in his hotel? Damn, he wasn't staying at the hotel anymore. He was supposed to go to that new apartment place, didn't they decide that the project would be more long term than originally suspected? Oh well. But wait, why should a hotel have this many corridors? And it was so dark... "Damn, I'm not in a hotel am I? Fucking mint bunny go find my briefcase! I want to play cricket!" He could play cricket. He would play cricket. He needed to calm down. Why did he have to be in America, anyway? Wasn't there some reason? Oh, right. The project. He swerved out of the sidewalk into the path of a vehicle coming down the road at high speed, and was temporarily blinded by the headlights. Gasping, he tripped over his own feet and fell against a lamp post, which he used for support. In his effort to hang on, he somehow managed to drop his bottle, and was cut on the by a shard of glass as it shattered under the tire of the now passing car. He clung to the pole even after he'd left the face of danger. The light was still there in his mind. "Why won't the stupid fucking light go away? Where's my drink? Why is my bottle gone?" he mumbled as loud as he could. He staggered some more, before tripping down the sidewalk to some extend, and eventually clinging to the railing. It was the only thing that separated him from the now present ocean. Why was there an ocean here? Was he back on an English beach? Why was he home all of the sudden? He looked up through the clear portion of the night sky and suddenly he saw it. Amongst the carpet of black and several little lights in the sky, there was a cracker. A giant, round, white cracker. Why was it floating. He 'walked' along some more, before shouting, "Cracker, damn-it I'm hungry! Give me the fucking money, you owe me damn-it! I'll get you! Bloody hell!" Suddenly he was off stumbling down the now wooden side-walk, still clutching the railing. And then he saw the dock. The pier. He could, he knew, get that giant cracker in the sky that owed him money, but only if he could reach the end of that dock. So he went down it, and didn't notice or care about the squeaking of the wood beneath his shoes or the boats traveling around in the distance or where the dock ended. All there was was that cracker and the crumbs and the money he knew it would take to get home. He ran in a wobbly line, and forgot to stop, because why would he want to stop when he was getting so close? The water was cold. Really cold. And salty, he realized, as he swallowed a more than healthy mouthful upon entering it's body. He gasped and thrashed, but it was cold and wet and getting all over his clothes and weighing him down. He struggled against the waves, and found a log to hold onto. It was floating pretty well, so why couldn't he? He held onto it with all of his might. Clinging for his life to this piece of wood. His arms seemed to just freeze like that. He didn't bother taking them off when he felt the sand scraping at the other side of his pants, around his knees, when his nose slid into the sand where it made a little mark and was propped up. He didn't really notice, or care, that he'd hit land. He just knew that he didn't have to hold on to the log anymore. But sometimes the things you don't have to keep are the ones it's hardest to let go of.

"...Bloody hell..." Arthur grumbled. Now that he was mostly sober he did notice how wet he seemed to be, and cold, and that sand had gotten into his clothes and was terribly itchy when salty, and he did care. And his socks were completely soaked through, which bothered him. As he pushed himself off the ground he spit out a little sand. He didn't even try to remember what he'd been thinking the night before. Propped up on his elbows, he tried to rub his eyes, which he had so far neglected to open, and discovered that his hands were pretty sandy too and maybe not the best for the job. "Damn it." he cursed, hitting one hand against the sand, then clawed his way farther up the beach. He blinked his eyes several times, trying to adjust to the light, and became aware of the driftwood besides him. He smacked that, too. He may have been kinder if he'd remembered that it may have very well saved his life the night before. Slowly, he started to pick himself up, and got on one knee, preparing to stand on shaky legs. That's when he noticed the person. He suddenly felt self conscious. But in attempt to toss aside those emotions, he instead analyzed the behavior of this strange American. Did he have no shame? He was just staring down at him with this boisterous and obnoxious grin plastered on his face. Arthur froze. He could feel the hint of a blush beginning to work up through his face. What an embarrassing way to meet new people. Whoever this was, they seemed inappropriately amused by the situation. They probably thought him a stupid, foolish, drunk. And maybe that much was true. This person, this american, was wearing a much more casual outfit than Arthur was suddenly aware he was. The difference in their clothing choice was large. And this american, his hair was more combed out than Arthur's was after sleeping on the beach for several hours. Though the american's hair was slightly ruffled, it wasn't nearly as bad as the disaster that was Arthur's. And his eyebrows were much thinner. He had bright blue eyes, and glasses. So blue Arthur nearly got a headache from looking at them. And then he was aware that he was looking at them, he did notice and he did care, and looked down at the ground, slightly embarrassed. Then he looked up again, aware that the american was moving. And the american was, in fact, moving. He previously had been leaning with his legs crossed against the stone wall behind him, but began to unfold his legs, stretching the one that had been on top about two feet in front of him and shifting his weight onto that leg. He leaned down a bit, and Arthur was aware of how close they were, and offered his hand.

"Need some help, there?" he asked in his totally American accent. That stupid grin still wouldn't leave his face.

"No, I'm fine." Arthur replied as quickly as might have been humanly possible, instantly pushing himself off the ground and stumbling to the right a bit before his legs slid out from under him and he ended up face-planting into some sand to his left.

"I think you need some help." he said just as pleasantly. He grabbed Arthur's hand and pulled him up, seemingly effortlessly. He was pretty strong. Arthur blushed a bit and started walking briskly in a direction that wasn't towards the american.

"Thank you I'll be off now." he said quickly.

"Now wait just a minute." the american called, and for some reason he couldn't help but stop. "Do you even know where you're going? You can't even walk straight. Are you sure you'll be alright? Come on, let me walk you home at least."

"No, I'll be just fine, thank you." Arthur said, not turning around. He continued on, blushing a bit more now. He continued to walk but with more attention paid to his foot-falls and wether or not he was walking straight and such. And then that obnoxious american was walking beside him, with equaled vigor and pace, but much less concentration. He was just smiling at Arthur, still.

"I'm not so sure about that." he said, just as Arthur walked straight into a wooden column holding up part of the pier they had just began to walk under. He rubbed the part of his head that had just been hit. It hurt so much already... He spun around quickly and kept walking. That was the important thing, that he didn't stop trying to escape this american.

"I'm absolutely fine, but thank you for your consideration sir. I wouldn't want to waste any of your time." he called over his shoulder. The american was persistent. He caught up with Arthur and started walking backwards slightly in front of him. Then he put out his hand. Alarmed, Arthur stopped. The american just kept smiling. God, what was wrong with him? Could he not take a hint?

"It wouldn't be a problem. I don't consider any of the time I spend with such gentlemen a waste." he said with a wink. Arthur froze. Did he really intend it like that? He must have. There would be no other reason for the wink. Possibly sensing how stiff and awkward he just made the situation or possibly just bored with watching Arthur struggle inwardly, the American said, "And plus, how can you deny a face like this?"

"Alright. If you must." he said gruffly.

"So where is it that you're staying?" the american asked.

"Well," Arthur said, pausing to think. He realized that he didn't really know where he was staying. He sifted through his pockets for something, he wasn't sure what, and finally came up with an entirely drenched card with a number on it, barely readable, and handed it over to the american. "I guess I'm staying there."

"Wow!" he said, eyebrows shooting up immediately. His eyes flashed up to Arthur's and then he closed them as he said, "What a coincidence! It seems we'd be going the same direction anyway. Congratulations, brit, you've just won the lottery! You've got Alfred Jones as a new neighbor!"

"What?" Arthur asked. It had just occurred to him that he didn't know the american's name as he said it, and now he knew that this person who'd seen him in possibly one of his worst states would be living next to him. "Really?"

"Come on!" the american said, motioning for Arthur to follow him. "I know exactly where you're going! Is your stuff there?"

"Yeah, I vaguely recall someone saying they'd have it moved for me." Arthur said. He suddenly realized that he should stop thinking of the american as the american. He had a name. What was it? "What did you say your name was, again?"

"Alfred Jones. Interested?" he replied. Alfred Jones.

"Come on, let's get walking." Arthur said with a blush, a blush which he hoped greatly that Alfred Jones didn't notice.

"What's your name?" Alfred Jones asked. They were trotting towards some stairs that Arthur had not previously noticed.

"Arthur." he replied, trying hard to not look over at Alfred Jones.

"Arthur what?" he asked. He was still smiling and looking over.

"Kirkland." he said quietly.  
>"Hm? I didn't quite catch that?"<br>"My name is Arthur Kirkland."  
>"There you go! So, Arty, why are you here in the states?"<br>"Arthur!" he insisted, gritting his teeth, as he reached the top of the stairs. "And I'm here on business."  
>"Really? Me too!" boasted Alfred Jones. Why did he always think of him as Alfred Jones? It was a good name, but was it possible that it just sounded tasted on the tip of his mind's tongue?<br>"You... you are?" asked Arthur.  
>"Sure!" Alfred replied. "Why?"<br>"You're American, I just assumed you lived here in the city. Where are you from?" Arthur asked. "And aren't you a bit young to be on business trips already?"  
>"I'm from Florida!" Alfred laughed. "And nineteen isn't too young for anything! Well, except drinking. But other than that, nineteen isn't too young for anything that I know of."<br>"Nineteen." Arthur said slowly, processing it.  
>"Why, how old are you?"<br>"Twenty one." Arthur replied quickly. "And that's not too young for drinking, at least here in the states, it seems."  
>"Well. Obviously not. I swear, that's going to be one long lasting hangover." Alfred said, continuing to laugh along. He slapped Arthur on the back, and Arthur stiffened. What a strange way to interact with a new acquaintance.<br>"Shut up." Arthur replied, to which Alfred laughed. Of course. It was seeming to him that americans were quite predictable.  
>"Come on. You wanna go get a burger before we stop back at your place?" Alfred asked cheerily.<br>"No, I'm a bit uncomfortable in this state, I'd prefer it if we walked straight back to the apartment building." Arthur replied awkwardly.  
>"Sure!" Alfred agreed. "Sand in the pants, gotcha, that can be pretty uncomfortable. Back home in Florida everyone's used to it, but I'd doubt an English Gentlemen like yourself would spend much time sprinting around the beach, at least not in normal clothes."<br>Arthur didn't especially like the picture Alfred was painting. He felt that he was being presented as a stuck up, snobby, rich, business-man type person, though he didn't think he was.  
>"Well, there aren't many beaches and opportunities to go sprinting in London." Arthur replied stiffly.<br>"Of course!" Alfred laughed. "But you guys probably have cooler things to do anyway. Like, oh my god, double decker busses! Those are so cool! Who'd want to run around on a beach when you can ride a bus around town as cool as that? Wow. Your eyes are really green. Did you know my favorite color is green? What's your favorite color?"  
>Arthur was so startled by the sudden change in conversation that he almost stopped. But he didn't, he kept his composure and only staggered a bit before continuing on. He adjusted his tie, aware of how tight it felt around his neck, and straightened it though his nice suit was completely wrecked and it wouldn't do any good for his appearance.<br>"Blue." he said without thinking, eyes flitting to those of Alfred's. Then he blushed and walked faster, looking down. "Like, uh, the sea."  
>"Sure." Alfred said, in a way that only made Arthur feel more embarrassed. "Wow, can your face turn red. I like red too, it's a nice color. But green's just real nice. It's the color of grass and leaves and lettuce. Like the lettuce on a nice, fresh burger. And it's the color of so many other pretty things, handsome things." Arthur blushed more.<br>"Blue's nice too." Arthur said in response. "Blue is in the eye of so many people." So many people... Alfred, namely. But other people too. People who he took pains to please and then... "And it's the color of... blueberries."  
>"No. Blueberries are purple, aren't they?" Alfred protested.<br>"No. Blueberries are... blue." Arthur replied.

"Are you sure...?" Alfred asked, looking Arthur in the eye. Arthur didn't want to be looked in the eye like that, but there was no way he could just look away with someone staring that intensely into his pupils.  
>"Yeah. I'm sure." he replied quietly.<br>"Wow, look at that. The apartment building's not so far from that beach. We could walk back and forth regularly if we wanted!" Alfred laughed.  
>"...We?" Arthur asked cautiously. Was Alfred suggesting they were even slightly more than friends?<br>"Sure. We're buds, right?" Alfred asked. "We're like, apartment buddies now. We're neighbors."  
>"Alright." Arthur replied. Admittedly he was not appalled by the idea of being... something else. However, he'd known this man for minutes. He definitely wasn't going to be involved in a way besides friendship.<br>"Why?" Alfred asked with a wink. "Looking for something else?"  
>"N-no." Arthur stammered. He was sure he'd absolutely given himself away.<br>"Come on, let me walk you to your apartment." Alfred walked by Arthur, up the stairs and even to his door. As Arthur opened the door he noticed that Alfred was still standing behind him. Awkwardly he moved into the apartment, and Alfred followed.  
>"Well, it's been very nice meeting you..." Arthur said, awkwardly motioning to the door.<br>"It sure has." Alfred replied with a smile, purposely falling backwards over an arm of the green couch onto his back on the cushions. The couch was very simple, really, and the springs made a large creak as Alfred fell onto them. Everything in the pre-furnished apartment seemed to be fairly simple. There was a little television in the middle of the wall by the door, and the couch was facing that. A small kitchen counter facing the inside of the apartment with a fridge and stove in place, as well as several cupboards. Next to the kitchen a table and some chairs suggested a dining room, and in-between the two there was a door that was closed.  
>"You should probably be leaving now, Mr. Jones." Arthur said testily.<br>"Right, but what happens if you decide to have another drink? Dude, if I leave no one's going to stop you from getting drunk again. So I'm going to stay, and make sure you don't leave the house." Alfred laughed, taking liberties with the television remote. Soon a football game was playing at high volume. A couple moments passed as Arthur drew in one angry breath and exhaled through clenched teeth before Alfred screamed, "Oh, yeah, touchdown!"  
>"I must insist that you go, Mr. Jones." Arthur demanded.<br>"Oh really? But who's gonna make me? You clearly need my help, at least for today, and it doesn't seem like either of us have anything going on right now so you can't use the excuse of work. And plus, you wouldn't call management on a face like this, would you?" Alfred asked. Arthur released an aggravated sigh. No, he wouldn't call management on a face like that. He realized that Mr. Jones was going to stay, and so he mine as well not let that hold him up. Arthur trotted across the wood floor to the door by the kitchen, which he discovered opened up to a two-doored hallway. The door on the right had a small bathroom with a shower, a toilet, and a sink, but the door on the left had his bedroom. The bedroom had a dresser, not a closet, which he particularly liked. He didn't particularly like closets. The bed was large and square with a black iron frame and nice fluffy looking greens sheets, the head was pushed up against the right wall. On either side there were small tables. He found his suitcase was propped up against the wall opposite the door, under a painting of the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, and the Golden Gate bridge. The major landmark for where he lived, England, where he'd been, France, and where he was or is, San Francisco. He cautiously maneuvered through the small room, not taking his eyes off the painting, as if it were a monster that might bite him. But monsters weren't physical things, they were all psychological. Demon-thoughts that prodded you into sleepless nights and fearful oblivions. He checked behind him to make sure the door was closed, it was, and unzipped the suitcase, eyes mostly trained on the painting still. He decided that maybe he should start unpacking and putting his stuff into drawers. His suits went arranged in an outfit format in the top drawer, his socks and underwear took up about half of the middle drawer, and at the very bottom was the sparse amount of 'casual' type clothing he had, because on a rank from useful to not useful that was where he ranked them. He began changing, and decided that as he had an unwelcome houseguest to attend to, maybe it would be better for him to leave his clothes on the floor, just this once. After he'd pulled on some fresh and clean suit pants and had started buttoning up the shirt he'd wear under his vest under his tie and under his jacket, something at the bottom of the suitcase caught his eye. He leaned down and snatched it for closer examination. A ring. A thin, twirling, intricate ring in the color of platinum with a heart of silver with a metallic blossom that seemed to nearly engulf a blood-red solid gemstone. It was elegant, it was light and it was just as gentle as a rose thorn. It's one great eye leered at him, and he didn't like it. It was a promise ring. A promise ring from a bastard who was mocking him always. A lie. That painting was leering at him too. That painting and that ring and all of that promise from that son of a bitch. It was too much.  
>"That bastard!" Arthur screamed. He made a fist around the ring and threw it to the ground, where it made a small dent in the hardwood floor. He swung his arm around in a fit of rage and sent the painting flying off of it's peg and crashing into the wall, where it slid down and fell defeated at an angle facing the ground. Arthur shook with fury and fell back onto the bed, where he clawed at the sheets and kicked the frame. He lay panting for a moment before getting to his feet and throwing against the wall his bloody suitcase and that bloody ring, again. He stumbled out of his room and crashed down the small hallway to the kitchen, where he immediately began rummaging through the cabinets for a drink. That bastard... And then suddenly there were hands on his shoulders and he was being pulled out of the kitchen into the living room.<br>"You, my friend, are on prohibition." Alfred said cheerily from behind him.  
>"What? It's my house, you can't make the bloody rules! Get the bloody hell out!"<br>"You say bloody a lot." Alfred observed, still smiling. "And I live here too, kind of. And you're not even sober enough to stop me from stopping you!"  
>"I am too sober enough, so get the hell out of here! I don't need some stranger looking after me I can take care of myself pretty damn well!" Arthur shouted.<br>"Ooh, testy." Alfred said with a mocking hiss and then a laugh. "Here, what's for lunch?"  
>"You expect me to cook for you then? Go get your own damn food!" Arthur shouted as he meandered back into the kitchen. What could he make? And was he really going to cook for that american? The answer, he supposed, was yes. There was something about that american that really bent his will. Maybe it was that he wasn't really used to having people being so cheerful and demanding, maybe the american was really trying to save him from himself. Why else would he be in his home, doing things he might do better next door in his own, making sure he didn't get near a bottle? There was some flour and milk, and baking soda, and sugar, plus several other basics needed to make a simple meal. Arthur sighed. Grabbing a bowl, he began a collaborative experiment between almost all of the ingredients he could find. Flour with a tad of sugar and a bit more baking soda then he thought was necessary to make whatever he was making. Milk and a teaspoon amount of water. Eggs, which he maybe should have scrambled more than he had before mixing them with the rest of the ingredients, and a sprinkle of cheese to add taste.<p>

Then he stirred so fast and hard that some of the mixture flew out in small globs. He poured whatever it was into a pan and put that in the oven for twenty minutes on a hundred and eighty degrees fahrenheit. He slammed the oven door closed furiously. Then he let his eyes flicker over to Alfred, who was still shouting away at the television. There was a space by his head, a space where Arthur decided he might sit. He walked over with quiet footfalls and swiped his hands across the cushion, smoothing it out, before he sat with a creak. He sat, awkwardly and unmoving, for a second, attempting to understand at least a little bit what was going on in that box, before reaching over and snatching the remote off of Alfred's stomach.  
>"Hey!" Alfred laughed.<br>"This is a horrible, stupid game, why do you watch this?" Arthur asked.  
>"It is not! It's great, and really fun!" Alfred replied.<br>"Then why aren't you playing it?" Arthur asked.  
>"Because I have to be here keeping you on house arrest. What do you suggest I be watching?"<br>"We're going to watch... I don't know, something good." Arthur stammered in response. Twenty five minutes later, after determining that there was nothing good to watch on television, Arthur decided to check on the 'food'. It only took three steps away from the couch for him to smell something burning. After that he sprinted to the oven door, which he swung open and immediately put his hands on the dish in the oven, then recoiled from the heat and ran his fingers under some cold water for a few seconds before nearly tripping over himself, grabbing oven mitts, in hopes of possibly saving his experiment. It was a failed attempt. When he slammed the dish down on the table, a couple layers of black flakes fell off into a small pile around the crisp lump. Arthur exhaled, then rummaged through the cupboards for a plate. He set it down next to the dish and tried to pry the burnt experiment from the tray, before giving up and deciding to just cut slices straight out of the main unit in the pan. Alfred seemed to have turned off the television and walked up behind Arthur, because now Alfred's speech was the only thing he could hear and his hand on his shoulder the only thing he could feel.  
>"Are you sure that's edible?" Alfred asked.<br>"Shut up, I'm a good cook I just have bad days sometimes where things don't really come out like I'd planned for them too, and... You distracted me! You and that damn television!" Arthur shouted. Alfred patted his back.  
>"It's okay, dude, you can admit it. You can't cook for shit. But you know, I'll order pizza and we can split the check." Alfred reassured.<br>"No! I'm going to eat this, my food is good!" Arthur shouted. Alfred sighed.  
>"Dude, part of me taking care of you right now is making sure you don't eat crap like that. It's okay if you can't cook, no one's judging you about it. Just let me order pizza, and I'll pay." Alfred insisted.<br>"No, I'm going to eat this." Arthur replied.  
>"You won't go against my will, will you? I mean, I'm only trying to take care of you and make sure you don't hurt yourself." Alfred pleaded. Arthur sighed. Why did Alfred always win when he went all, 'for me?' on him? Alfred whipped out a cell-phone and grabbed the cooking pan, marching over to the kitchen area.<br>"Oh, uh, you don't have to do that." Arthur awkwardly said. Alfred didn't stop talking but just looked over his shoulder and winked at him with a smile. Arthur turned and walked away from Alfred, to the couch, so he wouldn't see him blush. What was it about this guy...? Arthur sat back down on the couch and turned the television on, to a crappy show that was probably a soap opera with lots of drama and pretended to watch it. This wasn't happening, this emotion, this thing between him and Alfred. He'd never go through any of that again...  
>And then Alfred was falling over the arm of the couch in a planned way, his head landing in Arthur's lap. Arthur jumped a bit, then looked down at that smiling face. He was a bit frightened by it for the moment.<br>"What do you think you're doing?" he asked furiously.  
>"Me? Oh, I'm using you as a pillow. I hope you don't mind." he replied.<br>"Of course I mind, that landing hurt my..."  
>"Of course it did. It's not like it felt good or anything."<br>"You bloody bastard! Of course it didn't! What do you think I am, a bloody pain whore? Get the hell off of me!" Arthur shouted.  
>"Jeez, dude, you don't have to get so loud about it." Alfred laughed. He pushed himself off of Arthur's lap and sat fairly normally next to him, leaving Arthur with a racing heart and the feeling that it was oh so wrong to have the thoughts that he had and did not wish to share over the past few seconds. Thoughts different from the ones most normal men had. Was it bad to be strange? Was he strange? All his life he'd tried to fit the mold even though he didn't want to. His parents pushed him into what they thought was a nice shape all the time from every side. He'd come out of that shape once, and he'd been rewarded with ache and pain. He looked over at Alfred, and and Alfred was looking over at him. Alfred blushed a tiniest bit and was smiling so widely. He swung his arm out and put it around Arthur's shoulder.<br>Arthur closed his eyes and froze.  
>He took in the moment.<br>He took it in as much as he could because he knew, in a second, he'd have to push it away.


End file.
